


Seeing Shadows

by TottWriter



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen, Magical Realism, Mind Games, akaashi-centric, or perhaps not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:07:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24652054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TottWriter/pseuds/TottWriter
Summary: They’ve always been there. He’s not sure when he first realised that no one else could see them, but he’s certain he can’t remember a time when they weren’t around. Always watching, pointing him out to each other, or whispering conversations he never quite manages to hear. A constant guard from the moment he wakes to the closing of his eyes as he falls asleep....Sometimes he even thinks they mean him well.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	Seeing Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> So, once upon a time in...2017? I wrote this story for a fanzine which got delayed, had shipping issues, and generally carried its exclusivity period on long enough after I submitted it that I entirely forgot I had never shared my own contribution publicly.
> 
> Since then I've come close to posting it a couple of times, but I've always had a bit of a hesitation what with it being Gen, and the fact that its canon-speculation has rather been usurped by the manga overtaking it. But I figured I'd share it anyway, because I'm still very pleased with how it turned out. I haven't edited it since perhaps early 2018, so where I'm right and where I'm wrong with canon was entirely my own guesswork and speculation.
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading!

They’ve always been there. He’s not sure when he first realised that no one else could see them, but he’s certain he can’t remember a time when they weren’t around. Always watching, pointing him out to each other, or whispering conversations he never quite manages to hear. A constant guard from the moment he wakes to the closing of his eyes as he falls asleep.

Some days he can almost convince himself that they’re not real: mere figments of his imagination which have clung to his subconscious well past the point in his childhood where they ought to have disappeared. Others, it’s impossible to doubt their existence, or their vigil as they wait for the day the price must be paid. There’s always a price, after all, and he owes them far too much to expect anything else.

He’s heard the story too many times to count. Over and over since he was a baby—but his earliest memory of it is from when he was four years old. He remembers listening, rapt, as Grandmama told of a baby born five weeks too soon. 

How this child lay pale and still, hardly breathing. Silent and cold, too sick to even cry out. How they’d shaken their heads—said it was tragic—begun their prayers for his soul, and then…

 _Then_ a shadow had passed across the moonlit sky, and when it fled, the returning light had been accompanied by a wail. The baby suddenly howled, healthy and strong. A miracle. A gift.

At four years old, he hadn’t understood the concept of debt. Hadn’t understood the nature of those he might owe _everything_ to. Sometimes, he wishes he were still that naive.

* * *

Keiji has always been tall for his age. Athletic too. At nine years old he stands a full head taller than many of his classmates, with long, still-slender limbs. He is the fastest runner; among the best at each and every activity at the sports festival. As if this did not earn him enough covetous glances from some of his classmates, when his test results come back they consistently place him near the top of the year group.

 _It’s hard work,_ he tells himself, looking at the mark written at the top of his test paper. _It’s because I studied._

They watch from the corners though, nodding and muttering to themselves as he carefully slips his work back into his bag. They look very pleased with themselves, just like they always do when he gets good results. 

He can’t help but think of Grandmama’s stories, and wonder what would happen if he _didn’t_ study. Would it make any difference? Would the mark be lower, or just the same as it always is? Are they helping him do well at school, just the same as Grandmama says they’ve helped him be tall and strong and, apparently, handsome?

...Does he want to find out?

* * *

No one else sees them. He knows that by now. Even Grandmama can’t, although she’s always believed him. She’s the only one who does.

It’s lonely, especially as Grandmama gets older. She sleeps most of the day now, watched over almost as closely as Keiji is. He glares at them sometimes, frowning as they whisper to each other, pointing and nodding in her direction.

 _Leave her alone_ , he tells them, but only when no one else is watching. His parents used to think it was sweet when he talked to them, praising his imagination. These days they’re more likely to tell him it’s childishness, assuming they don’t simply give him a disapproving glare.

He’s sure it’s _their_ fault when she falls ill. She’s old, just like everyone says, and old people get sick more easily, but that doesn’t mean anything to Keiji. No one else sees what _he_ does. They gather around her in greater and greater numbers as her mind starts to wander, and he’s frantic with worry. They can’t take her away, they just _can’t_. Who will listen to him and believe what he’s saying? Who will tell him the story of when he was born?

Who will comfort him when the staring and the whispers haunt his room at night, and he can’t sleep for the almost-voices which lie just on the edge of his hearing?

The audience grows as Grandmama’s illness takes hold, and Keiji begs them to leave her alone. The more they crowd around, the worse she seems to get, and no matter what medicines the doctors give her, nothing helps. She doesn’t even recognise him when he visits all the time, and increasingly his parents seem to be keeping him away from her.

They start shaking their heads sadly when he dodges the chores or errands his parents try to snare him with. They crowd around the edges of the room as he brings her favourite treats. Some of them watch eagerly, leaning forward with arms resting upon their knees. It reminds him of how his friends sit when they’re watching the television.

“Stop it!” he tells them, resisting the urge to throw things. It doesn’t matter that Grandmama can’t see their unsettling smiles as they watch her illness progress. It’s _wrong_.

But no one will believe him if he explains. The only person who ever did is too sick to stand up for him any more. And no one listens to his concerns when they start watching eagerly; more and more of them until the day the audience is gone when he enters the room with her breakfast. The crash from the dropped tray wakes his parents, who find him still stood in the doorway amid shattered crockery and spilt food.

* * *

Keiji never tells anyone about what happened. His parents hated him mentioning Them to begin with, but it’s much worse now that Grandmama’s gone. He inherits her books, too, and many contain stories about them; stories Grandmama never told him. The more he reads of them, the more he realises _why_.

He’d always been told that they were helpful. Grandmama repeated over and over that they had saved him, helped him, blessed him with good health and possibly other things as well. She’d recited tales of adventure and excitement, of children who battled monsters and their allies who blessed them with fortune and advice.

She’d never mentioned babies stolen from their beds, or mistakes with heavy penalties to be paid. Never told him that many of the stories have no happy endings at all.

And on top of this awful revelation, over and over again the real stories tell him that no gift is given without something being taken in return, and that if the gift isn’t appreciated enough it is often _taken back._

At twelve years old, Keiji knows what will happen if he tries to tell anyone about his sudden discovery, and the new fears which plague him along with his endless entourage. If he discusses the faces which watch him and his concern that they will steal him away again, he will not be believed. The best outcome would be everyone assuming he is making things up to be annoying, or perhaps reacting from grief. The worst (and more likely option, given that his parents would add to the story) is that everyone would think there is something wrong with him.

He decides not to tell anyone at all. He can’t. He can’t even risk writing it down, because what if someone sees that? He’s already heard his mother talk about making him ‘see someone about all this’.

It’s not a good day when he realizes that his parents think there’s something wrong with him already. He has to do better. If no one believes him, and telling someone will make them think he’s crazy—and what else is he supposed to think his parents mean—then he’s got to pretend they don’t exist. After all, it’s his parents who wanted him. It’s his parents who were given him, given a second chance to have a healthy, living son. If he isn’t wanted by his parents any more, if he’s too much hard work...what if _they_ decide to take him back?

* * *

Being a perfect son isn’t easy, even though he is tall and athletic, and clever and objectively good-looking. He can admit these things about himself easily enough, because _they_ made him this way. It wasn’t his doing, and there’s no point in denying things which are true.

What’s harder are the things he has to do for himself—being polite to everyone; doing his best to be courteous and helpful; refusing to react when they start jeering at him throughout the day, as though they want to trip him up. Because if he doesn’t get everything right, what do any of his supposed ‘advantages’ matter? If he isn’t good enough for his parents they’ll take him back anyway, and it will all be for nothing.

To manage his seemingly impossible task without breaking it into more manageable aspects would be pointless. Therefore, Keiji devises a system whereby each facet of himself can be broken down into a strength or a weakness. Points added for good behaviors or traits. Deducted for misdemeanors and flaws. And as long as he can keep his totals in the black, everything should be fine. 

He learns to keep a level expression no matter what. Learns to look past them as they leap and jeer at every given opportunity. Learns to turn a blind eye to the envious mutterings of his classmates when he wins all the races; when his marks are near the top of the class; when he is overwhelmed by chocolates every Valentine’s Day. Learns to tune out the bitter, jealous way that a few of his classmates accuse him of being perfect, as though he is doing it either to spite them or to toy with the hearts of the girls whose gifts he painstakingly reciprocates each White Day, careful with his obligations to offend no one.

“It’s gotta be an act,” a boy in his class says one day, as they are sweeping the floor after school. He doesn’t trouble to keep his voice down, and nor do the others who reply with their agreement, and who call out to him, jeering that Keiji should just admit it. Own up to the fake he obviously has to be.

Keiji wishes that he could. Wishes that he could tell them how right they are, and how he envies their various flaws—open and unapologetic—more than any of his class would ever believe.

 _They_ watch from outside the windows as he keeps his head down and sweeps on, chattering and pointing at his would-be tormentors. Commenting to each other as though it’s one of the television dramas his mother watches while cooking dinner. More of them watch from behind desks and on top of cupboards, whispering secrets and looking highly entertained by the whole charade.

Throughout it all, Keiji says nothing. His expression stays unchanging. He’s practiced often enough that he can keep a level countenance through almost anything by now. And the words don’t sting for the reason those boys hope they will. One day, if they take him away, perhaps his classmates will even understand that fact.

* * *

He tries not to think about the future too much. His parents and teachers expect great things from him, but it’s hard to make plans for the years to come when there’s a constant nagging doubt in his mind that he’ll be there to experience them. Athletics are good in that respect—his talent for volleyball, and the natural advantage his height gives him lend support to his claim that he wishes to focus on the sport. Getting into a powerhouse school leads people to suspect he wishes to pursue it professionally on some level. 

Perhaps he does, perhaps he doesn’t. His teachers advise alternative plans in case his presumed ambition fails, which is only common sense, after all. And the extra work which goes into maintaining good academic results _and_ improving at volleyball leave him almost tired enough to tune out the watchers which gather around as he lies in bed at night.

Against all the odds he makes friends, too. Teammates who, if they _are_ whispering about him behind his back, at least do so out of his earshot. An additional advantage of getting into Fukurodani is that he’s managed to shake his reputation as the strange boy who stares off into space now and then and has a personality far too stilted and artificial to be real.

But there are more of _them_ than there used to be. They watch him closer, even as he acknowledges them less and less openly. It’s perverse that the more he works to pretend they don’t exist, the harder they attempt to distract him as he goes about his life.

At the end of his first year at the school, he is made Vice Captain of the team, a position he accepts with a calm, serious expression, and promises that he will do his very best. His unseen audience watch silently as he bows to his teammates, although a few leer at him with the probable purpose of putting him off. He tunes them out, and tells himself that perhaps if he can manage this, if he can be the setter of this team and help take them to victory at Nationals, it will help prove his worth.

He’s a vital part of the team, after all. A key link between the players, and even if his seniors don’t quite think it necessary that he manage their unruly Captain with as much finesse as he tries to, that’s okay. They don’t understand the stakes. They don’t understand that he has to get this right. He has to help them win, because time is running out. In the back of his mind he can see the growing horde around his grandmother.

Keiji washes his hands and monitors his health with a fastidiousness which, were he not an athlete playing for a skilled team, would suggest paranoia. He tells his mother and father that he cannot afford to miss practice, that he must be able to play to the best of his abilities, and sometimes he can tune his audience out enough to even believe it himself. He’s older now, after all. The doubts have been sitting in his mind for some time now about the true nature of his childhood.

Are they really there? Most days he catches himself wondering, at least a little. But the risks are too great, even as he reaches his seventeenth birthday still alive and untouched. No one has come to claim him yet. Perhaps his story will be a happy one after all.

Then again, _they_ are still watching. Each morning, faces surround him as he wakes, and each night sleep eludes him for the whispers and mutterings which fill his ears.

The thought occurs to him, one day as he walks home, that although he is older now, mature and grown and no longer an infant or even a small boy, he is not yet an adult. _Technically_ he is still a child, and that’s what his parents wished for, is it not? That their child would live? If this _were_ a contract, there’s still every reason to suppose it might end with his childhood, although the point at which he can be considered to have come of age is a contentious one. Many of the stories claim it to be eighteen, although he won’t legally be an adult until he reaches twenty. So if it does end with his childhood, how long would he have left?

He’s juggling more and more each day, too: Vice-Captaincy, harder schoolwork, and an increasingly impatient expectation that he decide what he wants to do with his life. In the background to the mounting stress of his life, his audience only grows, watching and waiting. Expectant stares from all angles, morning until night.

And the nights are worse than ever. So much whispering and muttering that it’s hard to sleep at all unless he works himself to exhaustion. The pressure of telling no one mounts and mounts until there are days he wants to scream. Days when only the years of practice he has put into his carefully neutral expression can hold him together.

But if he told anyone about them, doubtless it would be brushed off as the result of overwork. He might be asked to stand down from the volleyball team, or at least as vice-captain. And then he would have failed. He’d be no good. A useless gift, potential wasted. He’s got to be better than that. Got to be perfect. The perfect son. The perfect student. The perfect player. Anything less and he is putting his whole existence at stake.

His life narrows to the lists he drew up to monitor himself and his surroundings: a series of strengths and weaknesses. Statistics which he drowns himself in, forcing his thoughts to run faster and faster in the hope that this will drown out the chatter of them. If he works harder, if he achieves the goals which have been set for him, will it be enough to justify his worth? Will it be enough to satisfy whatever unknown conditions have been set against his life?

And then the weeks of preparation are over, and they are on their way to Nationals. In the back of his mind he knows this isn’t the final try that it is for most of the rest of his team. He’s still only seventeen, he’s got another year—a year in which there is every chance he will be _full_ captain instead—but there is something about this tournament. In the back of his mind there is the growing certainty that this is his task. Take _this_ team and win.

If he can’t, the faces which watch him at every turn have a certain... menace about them. Time grows short, and next year he will be juggling even more schoolwork, and pressure, and expectations that he plan for a future which he can never quite envisage. No, by next year the odds will be stacked too far against him. And next year he will already be almost eighteen. By then he will have snapped, one way or another. Wrung dry from years of keeping their secret, years of hiding his story. But if his team can only win _this_ tournament, it seems fitting enough that he would have earned such a reward as freedom, surely?

The team steps out onto the court, and the whistle blows. Keiji plays as though his life depends upon it.

After all, there’s every chance it does.


End file.
